Midnight
by Elphaba'sGirl
Summary: It is nearly midnight, and most of the boys are asleep (save Race and Finch, who are playing cards, Crutchie, who is only pretending to be asleep, and Jack, who is on the roof), and Specs sits before the fire, a pen in his hand and a sheet of paper on the floor.


**Disclaimer: No.**

The paper is white. The ink that the pen leaves in its wake when he presses down is black. The snow is white. The coal for the fire- which is dying, now- is black. The flames- or what's left of them- are white.

It is nearly midnight, and most of the boys are asleep (save Race and Finch, who are playing cards, Crutchie, who is only pretending to be asleep, and Jack, who is on the roof), and Specs sits before the fire, a pen in his hand and a sheet of paper on the floor. He is bent over it, struggling to get his thoughts down before he forgets. Ugly black blotches where he's scribbled out misspelled words glare up at him as he writes.

Up on the roof, he can hear Jack's footsteps as he climbs up the fire escape and lands on thick, cold metal. It is winter. It must be cold. Specs pulls on his coat and crawls out the window.

Jack is leaning on the railing, looking out over the gray city of New York. His eyes are tired, his body thin, but there is a smile on his lips and traces of paint in his hair and on his clothes. The shades of gray are not as clear-cut as those in the newspapers.

"Evenin' Jack," Specs greets him.

"Evenin' Specs."

"Ain't it a bit cold for this tonight?"

Jack shrugs. "Maybe, but I ain't goin' inside any time soon."

Specs joins him near the railing, leans against it, and turns to look at the newsie leader. Jack Kelly has a majestic profile, warm and strong and comforting and familiar amid the cruel streets and cold air. He is the big brother most of the newsies have never had.

Not that most of them have a _real_ big brother to compare him to. Specs does. Spec's brother Oliver is in the refuge. He has been for the past two years. Perhaps, Specs thinks, Oliver is dead.

But, then, perhaps he is alive.

Specs turns away from Jack, closing his eyes. He hopes Oliver is alive. He needs him to be, almost as much, perhaps, as Jack Kelly needs Santa Fe.

Santa Fe, Specs thinks, is the worst sort of dream. There are several kinds of dreams; the easy dreams, which are accomplished with maybe a little heartache and sweat (like a warm bed at night), the possible dreams, attained with dedication and a little luck, (such as getting a real job), and unattainable dreams, which one knows can never come true, but which provide hope in the darkness, (like flying, or standing on the moon).

Jack's dream of Santa Fe is somewhere between "possible" and "unattainable," just enough past the realm of foreseeable achievemant to drive a man mad. And Jack Kelly, Specs can see, is going mad.

Jack's latest piece of artwork is lying beside him; he's painted a dramatic sunset over a sweeping landscape, Specs can see.

He cannot understand what Jack sees in the shades of gray shading the sky.

Specs thinks of his brother, with his dark white hair and big eyes. Oliver is four years Specs' senior, (that is, Specs reminds himself, if he is alive), and the only member of his blood family left alive.

"It's horrible, isn't it?" Jack says, his voice a low, guttural growl.

Specs looks back up at him, shocked, for despite the subject-matter (Santa Fe, most likely), the painting is beautiful. "No. No, it isn't, Jack. It's very well-done; the shades of gray are expertly placed. It really does look beautiful."

But Jack isn't looking at the painting, he's looking out at the dingy streets of New York.

"Oh," Specs stops himself, runs his hand through his hair, and breathes out. "Look, Jack, it ain't all that bad, really."

Jack laughs bitterly. "Right. New York's a prison for the cursed. You work to get into it from the outside, but once you're here you're stuck and you condemn your children to a life in the streets an' your grandchildren after them."

Specs sighs, then places his head in his hands.

"Shades of gray that blend together into a rainbow of monochromatic colors," Jack spits. "Blood red and steel blue when it rains..." He bends down and pulls a sketchbook from below his stack of paintings, then pulls a pencil from his pocket and begins a drawing with angry, determined strokes.

Specs thinks of the foreign words; "red," "blue," what do they mean? He cannot place them and he feels disconnected from Jack.

Specs is cold, now, up on the roof with the ground so very far away; even with Jack beside him he feels alone. He looks up at the sky, at the white stars on a black sky, and imagines that somewhere, somehow, Oliver can see those same stars.

If he is alive.

He is alive.

He must be.

Unless he's dead.

Specs squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them again, all he sees is the gray city of New York, and a pale gray moon pinned up in a hollow dome of a sky.


End file.
